


I Want to Hold Your Hand

by Gorgeous_Girl_Genius



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Acceptance, Awkwardness, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Mild Angst, Scars, Sex, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, just sort of happening in the background, not really sexy at all, super super vague sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 12:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeous_Girl_Genius/pseuds/Gorgeous_Girl_Genius
Summary: Makoto wants Kyoko to take her gloves off during a moment of sex. Kyoko has a lot of feelings about this, and Makoto is exactly the right sort of validating.Happy late Valentine's Day!





	I Want to Hold Your Hand

My hands were burned. They’re covered in horrible, raised, rippled, angry purple scars. They itch, and they’re sensitive. They’re smoother and dryer and hotter than skin should be. They’re not pretty scars, and they’re not even horrifying in a tragically beautiful kind of way. They’re not something you can look at long enough and find beautiful; they’re too undeniably ugly and downright unpleasant to touch for that. And that’s quite all right with me. There’s truly no sense in wasting time and energy getting upset about this fact. The sight of my hands, however, would invoke feelings of revulsion in others, and the casual contact of a handshake or brushing of fingertips when exchanging an item, would make them recoil. Some of them, at least. Some of course, are too polite or kindhearted to display their feelings so outright, but even so, I can usually read it beneath the surface, and it’s not pleasant to see. And of course, there are my own feelings to deal with. Though I’m not sensitive to rejection, it’s not as though I have no feelings at all. Repeated exposure to that consistent revulsion on a daily basis would likely bring up some self-consciousness I’d rather not deal with. So, as my hands will be the way they are for the rest of my life, I will keep them safely tucked away under my gloves. A simple, elegant solution for all of the social issues the scars will cause. Or so it was. Until now.

His hand hovers by my wrist, just under the cuff of my glove. His hazel eyes are wide, a desperate pleading in them, his emotions acutely obvious on his face. My face burns, alerting me to the embarrassment he’s caused. Does Makoto really need to be so open about his emotions? It’s honestly excessive. In any case, it seems this prospect of what he wants is more uncomfortable to me than the situation we’re in right now. To me, I suppose, sex is simply less difficult than touching hands. An understandable feeling. Far more intimate for him to touch the hypersensitive, scarred remains of the skin underneath my gloves than to be inside me. And, in fact, it seems that he’s doing this because he recognizes this. Even as he moves in me, openly and unabashedly meeting my eyes in the most intimate display that most people will ever have, he still seeks more intimacy. He wants my gloves to come off, to get past the last barrier that I haven’t allowed him to breach.

“Please? I want to hold your hand.” His voice is soft, higher than usual, almost a whine, no doubt because of the pleasure he’s feeling. He seeks more intimacy from me, it’s true, but he seeks it gently. There’s no entitlement behind the words. He’s asking permission, soft, and sweet, and unassuming. As always. Makoto is nothing if not considerate. I’d like to give him what he wants, I would. But as I attempt to form the words to say yes, I feel my heart rate increase even beyond the level normal for sexual arousal. Tears are suddenly stinging at my eyes, unbidden, and unwelcome. I close them quickly, an attempt to prevent the tears from escaping and alerting him that something is wrong.

But my attempt is ill fated. I feel my breath catch, and Makoto stops moving. I attempt to take a deep breath but it catches again, ragged and sharp. It appears I’m more anxious than I’d imagined over this. I’ve let things get out of control and now I’m going to have to deal with the consequences.

“I’m sorry. You really don’t have to!” I open my eyes to Makoto’s face, cheeks red, eyes filled with deep concern as he rushes to reassure me that he never meant to pressure me. Of course he didn’t. I feel my lip tremble, the tears spilling from the outer corner of my eyes, running to soak down into my hair splayed out beneath me. I would like to be more reasonable in this situation. I would like to be able to breathe and not allow my emotions to run away with me. But I can’t help it. Perhaps it’s pathetic, but I cannot control it.

I don’t want to see his response when I take off my gloves. I don’t want him to touch my hands. Because I don’t want him to tell me that they’re good. I can only assume that’s what he’ll say. He’ll touch them. He’ll tell me he doesn’t mind, that they don’t feel uncomfortable to touch. That they aren’t that shocking, that appalling. He’ll probably tell me they’re beautiful. And I’ll be able to see right on his overly expressive face that he’s lying. It’ll be such a kind lie, a sweet one, born of a deep, all encompassing love for me. But it will be a lie, and one I don’t want to hear.

“I shouldn’t have said anything!” Makoto whimpers. “I’m so sorry, please forget I did.” I look up at him, the moisture in my eyes blurring the lines between his features. I love him. And I want to give him what he wants. I want to share the intimacy he wants from me. So I shake my head no.

“No, No,” My voice shakes, so unlike the calm monotone I’m used to hearing from my own voice, “I’m not unhappy you asked.” I then nod. Actions, at this point, seem far easier than words. So in lieu of saying more, I pull at the fingers of one glove until each one is loosened, then pull it off from the bottom. I repeat the process with the other one so I have two bare hands, the purple, splotchy, and unevenly textured skin bare for him to see. I blink the tears out of my eyes. He bites his lip, his brows furrowed together. He’s uncomfortable. Visibly so. I watch him stare at them for a moment, uncertain and troubled.

“Please. Don’t tell me they’re pretty. Don’t tell me you like to touch them.” The words slip from my lips without my permission, as wavering and uncertain as the ones I worked so hard on a moment ago. I’m out of control indeed. Perhaps moreso than I’ve been since I was a small child. At my statement, an expression of confusion crosses his face, and though it lingers, he says nothing before he reaches to touch my left hand, cautiously, experimentally. His fingertips, brushing against my palm, cause far more sensation than they should. The gentle touch on the dry skin feels hot, an unfamiliar warmth. I assume it’s been so long since I’ve felt the touch anyone’s skin on my hands that I’ve forgotten what it feels like. He smiles, confident now, though I’m actually uncertain as to why. Perhaps I’m too distracted with my insecurities. I am having a difficult time thinking of anything except how uncomfortable it must be to touch my hands, as rough and dry as they are. They’re honestly barely recognizable as human skin, certainly not soft and silky like his own hands. There’s no way it’s at all pleasurable. But he intertwines his fingers with mine anyway.

“It’s okay.” Makoto says, and he resumes the motion of his hips. It’s a wonderful feeling, a welcome return to distraction. He leans forward to touch his lips to mine, still grasping my hand firmly in his. I can read his love, unaffected in his voice, in his eyes, and in the set of his lips. He loves me.

“It’s okay, I won’t tell you they’re beautiful. I won’t tell you anything like that. They’re not pretty. They don’t feel good. But they’re yours. And I love all of you. Even the parts that aren’t pretty. And I want to hold your hand.” 


End file.
